


Whiskey Sharp and Honey Sweet

by Deastar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Multi, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: A Wild West AU. When charming drifter Neal Caffrey rolls into Sheriff Burke's town and starts flirting with Peter's sweetheart, Peter's sure the stranger is up to no good. But by the time Neal proves him right, and Peter is duty-bound to track him down as a fugitive, turning Neal over to the law is the last thing that Peter wants.





	

Peter, the sheriff of a town with little to recommend it other than a train station, a law office, and an unusually classy and well-kept saloon, has been courting Elizabeth—the owner of said saloon—in his gentlemanly way for two years. He’s been working up his nerve, you see, to maybe, _someday_ , ask her to marry him. And then into town waltzes Neal Caffrey: gambler, magician, jack-of-several-trades… and, Peter is convinced, thief.  Neal Caffrey, Peter concludes, lives more elegantly than his lawful talents would support – and when he checks with the sheriff of the last town that Neal graced with his presence, it turns out Neal took off in something of a hurry.

So Peter follows Neal around, trying to prove his suspicions. In particular, he stalks Neal at Elizabeth’s saloon (very proud of himself for killing two birds with one stone), but he’s not happy with what he sees there: Neal and Elizabeth get along, he realizes, distressed. Neal and Elizabeth, he’s horrified to notice, _flirt_. Even worse, after all the time he’s started spending in Neal’s company, Peter is appalled to find _himself_ charmed by Neal Caffrey, too. _He’s a thief_ , Peter thinks stubbornly, but… he makes Peter laugh. He’s educated, sophisticated without snobbery, unfailingly kind to women and to anybody down on their luck. And Peter finds that hard to resist.

Peter goes to visit his sister Paula, who pulls out the whiskey bottle the minute she sees his face. After repeated application of alcohol, Peter finds the courage to pour out his poor, confused feelings at her kitchen table, hoping for some sympathy and a little advice. He finds the latter, but not the former. Paula smacks him upside the head sharply and tells him that a person can have feelings in their heart for more than one other person and as long as everybody's honest with each other, there’s no harm in it. And when Peter starts babbling about the “Neal is a _man_ , Paula” part of this crisis, Paula just rolls her eyes and says she knows Peter knows better than to judge any other man for wanting something that’s not hurting anybody else, and he ought to cut himself the same slack he’d cut a stranger.

Well, Paula, as usual, is pretty damn convincing, and as soon as Peter’s hangover clears up, he rides to the closest town with a jeweler and buys a gold ring for Elizabeth. He spends the whole ride back figuring out what to say to her… and to Neal. Declarations of love are not anything Peter has any experience with, after all. But he thinks he can do it. He thinks Elizabeth and Neal are kind enough to forgive him any awkwardness. And he hopes that they can both see, like Peter does, how good their lives could be together.

But as Peter rides back into town, his deputy meets him on the road. He’s grinning as he tells Peter, “You were right all along, Sheriff: that Caffrey guy was a thief. The widow Clay and the train conductor saw him slipping out the back of the rail depot with a box of gold bars!” 

Peter’s heart sinks. He’s never been so sorry to be right—never been so high only to be brought so low. There’s no point in riding into town now – he’s on his horse already. So Peter, with a dull ache in his chest, does his duty: he turns right around on the road and sets off to track Neal down. 

He finds Neal, although it takes him days and every bit of his skill as a tracker. He might not have done it, too, without the snow that falls over the territory, making it hard to hide and hard for a man on foot to outrun a man on horseback.

When he takes Neal into custody, Peter barely says a word. He doesn’t know what he could say. He had hopes, but even if he hadn’t, he’d still have been disappointed – a basic, sharp disappointment that Neal isn’t the man that Peter had finally come to believe he was. On the way back to town, the snow gets worse, and eventually Peter makes the decision to hole up in a cave until the weather dies down.

Neal, of course, isn’t good at silence. He tries to pretend everything is like it was before – he laughs and jokes and picks Peter’s pockets. Usually, of course, there’s nothing interesting in those pockets, but Peter was coming back from the jeweler’s when he took off after Neal, and…

“Look what we have here,” Peter hears from over his shoulder, and when he turns to look, he sees the golden oakwood box in Neal’s hands.

“Neal, don’t—” Peter tries, but there’s no force on God’s earth that could stop Neal from peeking inside a secret.

The box flips open in Neal’s palm, and Neal takes in a sharp breath through parted lips when he sees the ring inside.  “Ah,” he says, quietly, and Peter can't read him at all.  There's a long, silent moment where Neal just looks down at the ring, stroking its smooth, gold surface with one finger.

“For Elizabeth, I assume,” is what Neal says when he finally breaks the silence, and his voice is even, but the look he shoots Peter is knowing, cynical.

For a minute, Peter doesn’t understand why, and when he realizes, it’s like a fist to his gut, and the words spill out of his mouth: “Don’t—Neal, don’t you think for one minute that I arrested you bec—”

“Then what _am_ I supposed to think?” Neal asks, with a smile full of soft bitterness and heartbreak.  “I mean, the timing is a little suspicious, you have to—”

“ _Neal_.”  Peter’s throat feels scorched raw with Neal’s name, and something about the sound of it makes Neal pause, makes Neal quiet just for long enough that Peter can scrape together his courage and say what he needs to say.

“Neal,” he pleads again, more softly; “Neal, if I were the kind of man who could put love ahead of justice—I wouldn’t be bringing you in, Neal.  I’d—be letting you go.”

That, finally, makes Neal Caffrey silent – at just the moment when Peter most wants him to please, God, _say something_. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, so slowly, as if he thinks Peter might take it back, and kisses Peter, chaste and sweet. And Peter decides he doesn’t need to hear the words – not after that.

He needs other words, though, and he turns to that next: he _begs_ Neal to promise not to run from him, not to steal quietly away when Peter sleeps. He doesn’t fool himself that he could tie a knot that would hold Neal Caffrey if he wanted to run.

Hands clenching and unclenching uselessly, Peter explains, “You know what the posters will say, Neal, and it’s not my choice—”

“Dead or alive,” Neal murmurs, eyes distant.

“Don’t make me—” Peter forces it out through the tightness in his throat, “Don't make me sit at that desk and never know if today is the day that somebody’s going to bring me your _body_ —”

“Peter—”

“And I’ll have to—to _congratulate_ them,” Peter grits out, “and give them their _reward_ , and—”

Neal’s hand is warm and gentle on the side of Peter’s face as he pulls them close to each other. The blood rushing in Peter’s ears is loud enough to drown out the screaming wind outside. “All right, Peter,” Neal whispers.  “All right.  I won’t run.”

And then they are… where they are. In a dark place, lit by a small fire – cold, but not bitterly so. No one around for miles; no appearances to keep up or prying eyes to judge.

“I haven’t... done this before,” Peter admits into the inch of air between his lips and Neal’s, quickly amending, “well… once.”

“Once, huh?  Who was he?” Neal may think his voice is even, but the jealousy threaded through it is plain as day to Peter.

“He—?” Peter realizes quickly what Neal thought he meant. “No, no, it was a girl; a—a whore—when I turned 15, my uncle took me to a cathouse and—”

Neal cups his cheek with a warm hand and checks, “Wait, when you said once… Not ‘once with a man,’ you meant… ‘once ever’?”

Peter blushes. How can he explain this to Neal, Neal who’s always surrounded by girls, Neal who doesn't hear words like “respectable—”

“You’re embarrassed,” Neal murmurs. “Don’t be. Out here, a man with experience more often than not is a man who gets it by treating women like he shouldn’t.”

“Not you,” Peter says – he’s sure of that.

Neal smiles faintly. “For all my other sins, you won’t believe that of me, hmm?”

“I would’ve run you out of town the first word you said to Elizabeth if that’s the kind of man you were,” Peter says honestly. He doesn’t throw his weight around as sheriff too often… but Elizabeth’s a special case. More quietly, he adds, “I know you. And I know you have lines you won’t cross. They’re not the same as mine, but you’ve got ‘em. I know that for sure.”

Neal’s eyes go wide, like he’s surprised; then he shakes his head and swoops in to kiss Peter to within an inch of his life. It starts sweet as honey… but it turns sharp as whiskey before too long.

“Tell me,” Neal says, between liquid, fiery kisses. “Tell me what you want. Anything.”

“I—I don’t,” Peter stammers, “I’ve never—”

“But you’ve thought about it. About me.” There’s no doubt in Neal’s voice, no hesitation at all in the confident, wicked smile curling the corner of his lips.

“I—” Peter’s face burns, and he ducks his head to nuzzle under the point of Neal’s jaw, too flustered to meet Neal’s gaze.

“I knew it,” Neal murmurs, his voice sinking low, making the skin of his throat buzz against Peter’s lips. “Tell me, Peter. Whatever it is, you can have it.”

“Don’t say that,” Peter mutters, still averting his gaze. “You don’t know—”

“Anything.” The promise in Neal’s voice and in his eyes is as golden, hot – dangerous as the fire crackling behind him, and Peter burns in it. He’s only so strong.

“I—your hands,” he says helplessly. “I think about them.”

Neal nips at Peter’s lower lip gently, satisfied. “I know. I catch you watching.”

“I want you to—to—” Peter breaks off, cursing, and suddenly there’s a firm touch against the cloth covering his cock, and Neal murmuring low, “You want me to wrap my fingers around you, Peter – show you every trick these clever hands know? You want to taste yourself on my fingers, Peter?”

“Christ, Neal.” Peter can’t believe the words coming out of that mouth – they make him buck against Neal’s thigh and pant like a hard-ridden nag.

“Is that what you want, Peter?” Neal asks, and Peter only hesitates a moment before saying, “Yes. Yes, that’s what I want,” because it’s better this way, and anyway, he _does_ want that – wants it so much he can taste the need hot on the back of his throat. Neal’s hands, Neal’s beautiful, clever hands, touching Peter the way he touches himself when it’s late at night and dark, and never quite good enough – that’s good, that’s… natural. Neal wouldn’t have suggested it if he didn’t want it, too, so Peter knows it must be all right.

But Neal is watching him closely, and when Peter tries to kiss him again, Neal sets two fingers against Peter’s lips and says quietly, “What is it that you really want?”

Nervous, Peter says, “I—I told you, I want—”

“What were you thinking of, really, just now?” Neal’s eyes cut through Peter to his bones. “My hands, but not like that, something—”

“I _can’t_ , Neal, I can’t,” Peter says, desperate, ashamed. “Please, anything you want to do, I want it. I just want _you_.”

Something small and sad comes over Neal’s face, and he sets his hands on Peter’s face, pulling him close enough to kiss. “Peter,” he says, with a tenderness that Peter doesn’t understand; then he closes the final inch, kissing Peter unhurried and deep, as slow and sweet-sharp as molasses. It feels like he’s trying to melt into Peter’s body, and Peter meets him halfway, leaning into Neal’s warmth.

“Peter,” Neal whispers, when they break apart, still close enough to breathe each other’s breath. “Tomorrow you take me in. And I go with you—you have my word. And I—it’s not likely they’ll hang me—”

“Don’t say that, don’t,” Peter says, shaking his head as a cold thread of fear sneaks up his spine. “They won’t, I—” _I won’t let them_.

Neal’s eyes soften, and he nods, as if he heard what Peter didn’t say. “But… either way, this—tonight—is all you get, Peter. All either of us get, of each other. Don’t waste it on anything less than what you really want. Whatever it is, I swear to you, Peter, you can have it.”

It’s not _fair_ , Peter wants to say – they should have had time. They should have had so much time. Time to touch each other in every way either of them can imagine. Time to _not_ touch, to just be in each other’s company and know that they could touch if they wanted to – to know that, in a moment of affection, Peter could reach out and kiss, or Neal could stretch out his hand and caress, and it would be welcome, and wanted, and it would mean something to them both.

But they don’t have that time – it’s Neal’s fault, and it’s Peter’s fault, and it’s no one’s fault, but all they have is tonight. And Neal is right, about this: if what Neal wants from him is to see Peter’s own wants laid bare, then Peter won’t— _can’t_ —give him anything less.

“Your hands,” he starts again, then breaks off, flushing. “I don’t even know if—if men— _do_ this. Together. I don’t even know—”

“Then ask. I won’t laugh, or be horrified, or…”

But Peter doesn’t think he can say the words—his mouth is gummed shut from humiliation and nervousness—so he reaches up, mutely, to uncurl Neal’s hand from around his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Peter folds down Neal’s pinky and ring fingers and wraps his own shaking hand carefully around Neal’s first two fingers, tight.

Neal’s brows draw together in confusion and Peter moans with shame, hating his own ignorance. All he knows about what men do to each other— _with_ each other—is from cruel, whispered insults and crude, vicious jokes. Of _course_ that’s not—it’s probably not even _possible_ , and even if it were, it’s—Neal wouldn’t want to—

Just as Peter starts to pull away, cheeks blazing and stomach sour with self-recrimination, Neal’s face suddenly clears, and he says, “Oh!”

“Don’t,” Peter whispers miserably – all this means is that Neal has heard the same jokes he has, the same—

“Yes,” Neal says quickly, words tumbling out of his lips like stones in a landslide. “Yes, Peter, that is something that men do together. And yes, yes, that is something we can do. Something I want to do, very much.”

“You do?” Peter breathes, barely believing it even though there’s no reason for Neal to lie.

“I’ve thought about it.” Neal holds Peter’s eyes until Peter can’t help but see that he means it. “More times that I could tell you.”

Peter would thank God if it weren’t probably blasphemous to thank the Almighty for making another man want to commit a crime against nature with him.

Neal pulls Peter even closer, strong hands splayed on his back, and Neal’s wicked words wend their way into Peter’s ear as Peter bites a bruise into the hollow of Neal’s throat.

“You want to fuck me, Peter? You want to hold me down and take me until I beg? Or maybe you want me to ride you, spread my legs around you and ride you like a bronco, huh, Peter?”

“Not, ah…” Peter blushes again, feeling all turned around again.

Neal raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“I mean, yes!” Peter shakes his head, avoiding Neal’s eyes. “I—of course I want to do all that, I want—I’d have to be crazy not to want to—but.” Having gotten this far, he can’t play the coward now. “I thought, uh. You. Would, uh. To—to me. Your… fingers.” Peter is so red it’s almost painful. “I—that’s what I… or maybe you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I want to,” Neal says, with such naked fervor that Peter has to believe him. “I just didn’t think _you’d_ want…”

“I…” Peter buries his face in Neal’s neck, embarrassed. “I _really_ like your hands.”

“Ah,” Neal says, sounding enlightened.

“They’re very—” Peter waves his own hands gracelessly, and a small smile touches Neal’s lips.

“Apparently.”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

Neal’s voice is low and dark when he says, “Oh, believe me, Peter – I’m not laughing.”

“Then you’ll…”

Neal kisses Peter deeply. “I will.”

Peter returns Neal’s kiss, then gasps as Neal’s hand brushes against the front of his trousers on the way to his belt buckle. Neal murmurs into Peter’s mouth, “We’ll need something.”

“Something?” Peter echoes.

“To ease the way,” Neal explains.

Peter, still not following, asks, “To ease what way?”

There’s something almost sad in the way that Neal looks at Peter then, and Peter can’t do anything but look back helplessly and curse himself for being so ignorant – Neal sometimes seems like a child to Peter, filling his pockets with candy and shiny things without a care for tomorrow, but Peter’s the child, here, naïve and lost.

“Do you have saddle oil?” Neal asks, and when Peter nods, Neal stands to retrieve his saddlebags from the far side of their fire. The cold hits Peter like a slap, like diving under the river in March. He wraps his arms around himself and rubs his hands up and down, but he can’t replace the warmth of Neal pressed against him.

“Here,” Neal says, softly – he’s brought Peter’s saddlebags to the cave wall next to the fire, and he reaches out a beckoning hand. Peter gets awkwardly to his feet, pulling his unbuckled belt out of its loops when the two ends start flopping against his thighs. When he reaches Neal, Neal sinks to his knees in one smooth motion, and starts unbuttoning Peter’s trousers. Peter’s hips buck every time Neal’s fingers brush his cock, straining against the fabric, and Neal pauses to lay a promising kiss on Peter’s groin, whispering, “Easy, Peter.”

He pulls Peter’s trousers and smallclothes down to his knees, but instead of pulling Peter down to join him on the cave floor, he licks a broad stripe up the underside of Peter’s cock.

“Holy mother—” Peter gasps – his knees give out and he tumbles into Neal’s arms, outstretched to break his fall.

Neal murmurs, “Easy, now,” stroking his hands down Peter’s back while Peter gathers his wits.

“You did that on purpose,” Peter mutters, and Neal laughs, looking up at Peter through his lashes.

“Would I do that?”

Peter tries to think of a good retort, but all he can think about is how hard he is, so close to Neal like this, and how much he wants Neal to touch him.

“So do you _just_ want my fingers? Inside?” Neal asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or…”

It takes Peter a little while to figure out what Neal is getting at, and when he does, he blushes crimson. “I—I don’t know. I… hadn’t really thought that far,” he admits, shy.

“You don’t have to know yet.” Neal nips gently at Peter’s bottom lip. “Just tell me what you want when you figure it out. I’ll give you what you want. I want to.”

Peter stays in Neal’s lap while he fishes the saddle oil out of the bags, and then tries not to go out of his mind with nerves as Neal oils up one of his long, graceful fingers. “I’m…” he starts, not sure what he means to say, but somehow Neal seems to understand.

“Kiss me,” he tells Peter, “and we’ll take it from there.”

And they do.

Peter likes Neal’s hands, has given a lot of fervent thought to Neal’s hands… but he never worked up the nerve to try this on himself, and he doesn’t know what to expect. It’s… odd, more than anything, at first. And then, while Peter is distracting himself with kisses, Neal finds something inside of Peter’s body that lights him up, and it’s not odd anymore – it’s amazing. And it keeps getting better as Neal learns Peter’s body, learns every touch that makes Peter fall apart.

“How can you do this to me?” Peter asks, ragged, his body writhing and flushing and—and _opening_ in ways he hadn’t even known it could until this night. “How can you play me like a fiddle with just—”

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” Neal rasps, looking at Peter like _Peter_ is the miracle – like he’s falling apart, too, starting where they touch. “About _you_ , and I want to give you _everything_ , Peter, everything—”

And maybe this isn’t what Neal means, but maybe it is, and Peter’s sure, suddenly, that it’s what he wants. “Yeah,” Peter says quietly, fingers flexing into Neal’s back, “I want it. Do it. Please.”

“You want…” Neal searches Peter’s face for confirmation, and finds it. “Yes,” Neal whispers. “Yes, I want it, too.” Neal’s free hand comes up to tangle in Peter’s hair and pull him down for a fevered kiss – Peter doesn’t know whether he hates the taste of desperation that coats everything they do tonight, or whether it’s the only thing keeping him sane, but he kisses Neal back with everything he has. He can’t hold anything back. Not now.

“Let me…” Neal is squirming underneath him, shifting position slightly, and then his hand strokes down Peter’s spine to cradle the small of his back, just inches above the spot where his other hand is pulling Peter to pieces, bit by bit. “Closer,” he murmurs, urging Peter in with the hand on his back until their fronts are flush against each other. Peter reaches down and rucks up Neal’s shirt until he finds the taut, warm skin of his belly, and thrusts against him, moaning at the feel of Neal’s hidden bare skin against his cock.

Neal pulls out his fingers, and Peter feels it like a hard fall onto rocky ground – he jerks, and without thinking, he says, “No, I-I want that—”

Neal shakes his head a little and tips Peter’s chin down for a soothing kiss. “Got to trade one for the other – I can’t give you both at once.” As Peter flushes, he feels the back of Neal’s hand stroke up and down his cock – when he looks down, he sees Neal slicking himself, hand caught between them.

“Peter,” Neal says softly, and when Peter looks up to meet his gaze, Neal’s eyes are serious. “This is going to hurt, some, at least at first.”

“Good,” Peter says, and he means it. “I want it to.”

“Peter…”

“I want to remember.” Peter’s voice is low and fierce, and something in it quiets Neal – he gives Peter a long, lost look, then reaches up to catch Peter’s lips, licking into his mouth again and again until Peter has to break away or give up on breathing. Neal’s forehead comes to rest against Peter’s temple. “Don’t let me hurt you too much,” he whispers into the point of Peter’s jaw.

“It’s too late for that,” Peter replies, not bitter, just honest, and Neal’s breath breaks against his skin in what might be a sob.

“Then come here,” Neal says, finally, and slowly, slowly, guides Peter up until Peter can feel him pressing at his entrance. “Slow,” Neal entreats, “for both of us.”

“All right, Neal,” Peter allows. “All right.” When he feels it, he gasps loudly, bites his lip hard. It’s not the same as Neal’s fingers – he feels split in half, and that’s _right_ , Peter thinks, through the haze of pain and lust. Something this important, it _should_ feel like it’s tearing you apart.

Neal’s fingers are combing through his hair, worriedly. Peter takes a deep breath, then another one, feeling the pain start to recede as his body adjusts. Neal shifts his weight, and Peter feels the shift _inside_ his body – it takes his breath away. “Please,” Peter begs, and Neal whispers, “Yes,” and starts to move.

It starts out more hurt than pleasure, and even when the pleasure rises, the hurt never goes all away. That’s fine with Peter – he wasn’t lying when he told Neal he wanted some hurt to it, to keep with him when Neal himself is gone.

But the pleasure does come, too, from the slide of Neal’s cock inside him, from the grasp of Neal’s hand around him, and it travels back and forth between their bodies, freely shared.

From the jokes, the way other men talk about it, Peter had expected to feel… dirty, or low, being fucked by another man – like less of a man himself. But the way Neal is looking at him, awed; the way his hand splays hesitantly across Peter’s cheek, like he almost can’t believe he’s allowed to touch; the pleasure that glows brighter than the firelight on his face when Peter opens for him again, taking him in deeper; the groan that parts his lips as he thrusts up, helpless and abandoned – Peter’s never felt stronger or more alive, never felt _more_ , at all. How could this ever make anyone feel _less_?       

It ends, too soon – Neal first and Peter after, Neal’s clever fingers back moving inside him in place of Neal’s softening cock. And when it ends, everything comes creeping back, all the things that Neal’s touch had kept away: the cold, and the low hurt from the fucking, and the thoughts of tomorrow, which are the worst of all. Neal is sweet with him, careful, cleaning Peter up and putting him back in order before tending to himself, and that helps some. He tries to set them up near the fire with Peter in front and Neal wrapped around him, but Peter shakes his head. He trusts Neal—trusts Neal’s word—but not so much that he’ll let Neal put himself in the way of temptation.

“You lie close to the fire,” Peter says, quietly. “I’ll hold you.” _If anything can_. If Neal wants to run, Peter’s arm around his middle won’t stop him. But maybe it’ll at least give him second thoughts.

Neal acquiesces. They arrange themselves beside the fire, and Peter lets the silence spool out.

Neal’s the one to break it. Hoarse, he says, “You’re going to marry Elizabeth, then.”

“If she’ll say yes,” Peter says, never one to take things for granted.

“She’ll say yes.” There’s a pause. Then Neal lets out a long breath. “Take care of her, Peter. All right?”

“That’s the plan,” Peter says quietly. That was part of the plan, anyway – the other part is in pieces. He doesn’t want to say that, but then he thinks, _Why not?_ Better for Neal to know how much he’s loved. Eyes tight shut, Peter admits roughly to Neal’s back, “I was going to take care of you both.”

Neal’s rib cage shakes a few times under Peter’s arm. “I… I would have liked that,” he whispers, so, so softly. “I would have liked that very much.”

Peter doesn’t expect to fall asleep—he would have thought that he couldn’t, with all the emotions coursing through him—but his exhaustion and the warmth of Neal’s body are powerful sedatives. He jerks awake over the course of the night a dozen times, but Neal never moves from under Peter’s arm.

In the morning, Neal looks as if he didn’t sleep a wink. Peter’s heart aches, thinking of Neal lying perfectly still all night, torturing himself with the thought of leaving. “Sleep on the ride, if you can,” he murmurs.

They head for the closest town big enough for a courthouse, riding double, slow so that Peter’s horse doesn’t founder. When they get into town, the stars are just coming out.

Peter makes the necessary arrangements at the jail – tells the local lawmen, “He turned himself in,” which is as close to true as makes no difference. He knows very well that Neal could have given him the slip twenty times over, if he hadn’t given Peter his word.

When the deputies bring Neal in, past the desk where Peter is standing, Neal cries, “Wait,” and Peter motions for the deputies to stop.

“Tell Elizabeth…” Neal says, voice cracking. He swallows and tries again, “Tell her I… I never learned how to be anybody else. How to be—be honest. But she made me want to try.” Peter hears the _you both made me want to try_ that Neal can’t say aloud. “I did try,” Neal says more softly, voice like a bruise. “I—I don’t care that I failed my own damn self, but I—I’m so damn sorry that I failed her. I’m so sorry, Peter.”

He looks up at Peter with desperation, finally out of silver words.

“I’ll tell her,” Peter says quietly. He tries to figure out how to say what he needs to say next without giving himself away – when he thinks he’s got it, he adds, “She’ll wait for you, Neal. If you do your time, she’ll wait. And you can—” Peter can barely keep his voice steady – his throat is thick and tight. “You can try again,” he promises, a little hoarsely. “You can try again.”

“I will,” Neal promises, so sincere it almost hurts. “Oh, Peter, I swear I will.”

Peter says, “I believe it,” and then turns away – if he doesn’t get away from this place, he’ll unman himself with tears.

Outside on the porch, the local sheriff offers Peter a cigar. Puffing on his own, he says, “This Elizabeth sounds like a hell of a woman.”

In spite of everything, that makes Peter smile. “I’ve never met an Elizabeth that wasn’t,” he says honestly. “Was, uh… was on my way to propose to my own Elizabeth when I got sent chasing after him.”

The other sheriff slaps him on the back and offers his congratulations. “Better get back on that horse then, son,” he orders jovially.

“Suppose I better,” Peter agrees.

He rides through the night, catching a few winks here and there – his horse knows the way home. In the red light of sunrise, he rides up to the saloon, and finds Elizabeth waiting on the porch. There’s no one around—no one close enough to hear them, anyway.

“I told him we’d wait for him,” Peter says, in a voice that’s more scratch than sound – he ran out of water halfway home. “He’ll do his time, and then—” Peter catches himself. “I shouldn’t have spoken for you,” he admits, low, ashamed of his presumption.

Elizabeth cuts him off. “You spoke right,” she says firmly. “If I’d been there, I’d’ve said the same.”

Peter sags in relief.

More quietly, Elizabeth says, “I’ll wait. And you’ll wait.” She takes a slow breath, in and then out. “Will we wait together, Peter?”

He can tell by the look in her eyes—soft, but serious as a judge—what she’s asking. He falls down on his knees and digs out the little box. “Marry me,” he whispers. “Marry me, and wait with me. Please, Elizabeth. I love you.”

“Yes.” She falls on her knees there right beside him. “Yes, Peter, I will.”

Maybe it’s foolishness – maybe Neal will escape before there’s any chance of him doing his time, or maybe he’ll do his time and then take off for the next mark. Maybe Peter will meet an outlaw’s bullet with his name on it, or the fever that took half the town five years ago will come back for Elizabeth. This is a hard place, and you can’t ever count on the next day, let alone the next five years. But love makes you a fool. And at least now, Peter knows, he won’t be a fool alone.


End file.
